Jigsaw
by c1araoswa1d
Summary: (Tumblr Prompt) Twelve reads to Clara? (A little off the prompt, more about telling stories, and sharing an adventure.)


It only registered when his hearts broke, looking into the oversized brown eyes of the small child clinging to his left leg, that the year was 1992, and nothing about the girl he looked to should have made his chest ache the way that it did, and yet... it felt hollow in a way that had become all too familiar. Clara, he thought suddenly. _She was Clara_. And the Doctor held on tightly to that knowledge, knowing if he didn't, it would slip away again. Like smoke on the wind.

She was just under six, her tiny trembling body bundled in a blue jumper and overalls, covered in a thick red jacket, thin fingers gripping at him through worn white mittens adorned with pink hearts. And he's protecting that almost six year old Clara Oswald – along with the rest of her classmates, standing just behind them – from a sluggish looking putrid creature intent on having the flesh of young Earthlings for a midafternoon snack.

"Dry your eyes, little one," the Doctor assured her with a hand over her head as she stared at him, "We'll take care of this one together, what do you say?"

Her head shook slightly, her bottom lip trembled, but she remained at his side, turning to look at the alien that was tugging his fat slime-crusted body towards them. That mouth growled and Clara yelped, and then she released him to rush away. The Doctor gave the thing a smile because he imagined Clara was burying herself into her friends; he imagined she was going to pull them to safety because he knew that little girl already knew about the door just around the corner that he'd been backing them towards.

And then he felt something tap at his leg and he glanced down to see her holding up a chair, metal legs held out towards the alien, her boots stomping roughly into the slushy snow beneath them as if bracing herself for an attack. _Oh Clara_ , he thought, saddened by the automatic question burning up his mind, _have you never not been my brave girl_?

"Aren't you going to do something?!" She shouted up at him, light voice filled with terror.

"What would you suggest?" He retorted quickly. "Oh," he stated simply before smiling down at the stubborn defiance of her own fear, "What _would_ you suggest?"

He began rummaging through his pockets, trying to think as much on a solution as remember what the grown-up version of this child might have done, as he heard an adult scream behind him, and then he looked to the girl as she gasped, "Get inside!"

The Doctor pointed as the alien burped, finger turning towards her, "That's well and great, but what if it gets through the door?" He laughed, "Come on, Clara, there's no sense in hiding – it's still going to come after you. Like some monster in a bedtime story."

For a moment those eye widened beyond what he'd thought possible, and he knew: she had the same monsters in her nightmares that all children did, and her grip on the chair tightened as she nodded, small chest rising and falling in quick breaths before she barked up at him confidently, "Salt!"

"Sa..." he began, but he raised his Sonic, buzzing it to the thing in front of him and watching the blue glow that illuminated his hand, knew the small child at his side was too concentrated on the creature's continued forward crawling motions to notice, and he dropped his head back, feeling foolish. "Of course, salt – _d'you happen to know_ where we could get some?"

"The market," she told him confidently.

He stared, "Clara, there's very little time to head out on an errand."

She dropped the chair and ran and the Doctor picked that small chair up, looking over the orange plastic and the childish graffiti on the seat and he turned to watch her sprint around the corner, tempted to follow. Curious to know: was she going to hide, or did she _actually happen to know_ where to find salt. But the alien growled angrily and he turned back to look at it, Sonic raised. He might have gotten a witty word in, or some wonderful insult, but there came the crunching stomps from behind him of Clara's return, and then a skid of a halt before he saw her sliding forward, something held between her mittens.

He bent, quickly and painfully, catching her around her waist to hoist her up against his chest, but the alien had already charged forward to try and eat her, chomping down on the item she'd dropped before it began to shake, hissing and twisting and then ultimately breaking out into a set of convulsions as the Doctor and Clara watched. He looked to the child he held tightly, one arm around her stomach, the other just behind her knees, and he felt his hearts skip as she dropped her head against his shoulder comfortably to let out the smallest giggle.

Clara turned to glance up at him, telling him softly, "We had salt in class. Glad _that_ worked!"

Giving her a light hug, one she seemed entirely relaxed in, he turned away from the sputtering and oozing alien, back towards the door, stepping inside to nod at a teacher with a simple, "No worries, I'm the Doctor."

"Good heavens, is Clara alright?" She gasped, trying to wrangle twenty other children back into seats from where they'd all clamored into a terrified pile in a corner.

Nodding and giving the girl in his arms a little bounce, he replied, "Just fine, _better than_ , even – but she should probably see the nurse, give her mum a call. Maybe have an ice cream." He smiled down at Clara, who was smirking back up at him as he turned to walk through the hallway towards the staff offices. There wasn't time for questions, he knew, and UNIT would arrive soon enough. Or Lady Me, he considered.

"Who are you, anyway?" Clara asked him bluntly; seemingly at ease, being carried by someone she should deem a stranger. A potentially dangerous stranger.

He responded quietly, "John Smith, bit of a traveller – that's why I happened by your school, was in the area and heard the commotion..."

"Traveller," she repeated before telling him, "I think you're from a story I've heard people say." She nodded, leaning into him again to speak to the space in front of her, "Gran says there's a travelling man who always arrives when the monsters attack to help. Gives me nightmares," she ended on a quiet embarrassed laugh.

"That's a good story, I think," the Doctor stated. "Not the nightmare part though," he added.

She shrugged, "Nightmares are just bad dreams." Then she looked to him to explain, "Dunno about the stranger; sounds a bit like he _brings_ the monsters."

"A bit cynical for someone of only..." he began.

"Why would a stranger help people they don't know?" She interrupted boldly.

He moved into the nurse's station and quickly explained the situation before he offered to sit with her until Clara's mother arrived. They settled into a chair and she turned, looking up into his eyes before giving his hair a playful flap of her fingers with a smile as he told her, "Perhaps he's brave."

"Perhaps he's foolish," she countered, leveling a raised eyebrow at him. "Are you foolish?"

With a smile, the Doctor admitted, "I'd like to think so."

He listened to her giggles and he took a long breath as she laid her head into his shoulder again, trusting without question, and taking comfort in him without so much as a raised pulse. "Could you tell me a story, mister, one without monsters so I don't have nightmares?"

"Of course," he whispered. He smiled, "How about I tell you about someone you remind me very much of?" He felt her nod and he heard the tiny humph of amusement. "She was a friend of mine, my best friend in the whole universe – but through rather unfortunate circumstance, I've forgotten almost everything about her."

He felt her fidget slightly, and then she asked, "If you've forgotten so much about her, how can I remind you of her."

Giving her knee a light tap of his palm, he sighed, "Because of what I do remember; because of what I've pieced back together in this foggy old head of mine."

Clara glanced up and he gave his curls a pat that made her giggle before she asked, "Was she clever?"

He offered a laugh, telling her, "I can remember she was clever." Pointing at his temple, he winced and allowed, "There are times I think incredible things and I know they're memories – I know they're stories put there by someone else – and I know they're from her." Hand dropping away, he raised his brow and whispered, "She told me it's ok to be afraid, which is a good thing to know when you're always finding scary things like that monster."

Fingers pressing into her chest, Clara nodded and exclaimed, "My heart felt like it would explode!"

The Doctor smiled, "And it made you faster and smarter."

"I think that was my feet and my head," she snorted. He laughed with her, watching the way her eyes disappeared in that shared silliness. The Doctor found his hearts lift at the notion he'd made her laugh.

"She told me to be a good man," the Doctor said simply, looking to Clara's pink cheeks and the dimple that sat in her left, and he looked over her dark tresses, hanging loose and wild over her shoulders. "She told me to be kind to people, because I often have a hard time with it." Narrowing his eyes, he asked, "Am I doing ok, Clara?"

Shrugging, the girl told him, "I think so." Then she whispered, "Sometimes I get in trouble for being mean, but it's only because people don't do what's right."

"You mean they don't often do what you want," the Doctor corrected.

The pink went crimson and she looked away, embarrassed. He tapped his knuckle to her nose to get her attention and he made a face, one that elicited quiet giggle before she asked, "Do you remember what she looks like?"

For a moment he considered it. He'd tried to see her face a thousand times in the past thirty or so years. It seemed like he'd been able to pull up her photo a thousand times and yet, he could never remember that face. There was something round about it. Something brown and pink. Something that made him feel warm in an odd way and he looked to the girl. He looked to Clara, he reminded himself. This was _her_.

This was her on a smaller scale, held safely in his lap, waiting. Did he remember what she looked like; did he remember what _she'd_ look like. The Doctor gave her cheek a gentle caress and he watched the corners of her lips lift a little as he told her sadly, "I can't remember her smile, it somehow seems important."

"Well," Clara began with a frown, "You can remember mine, yeah? We've just met, I bet you could even draw it down." She bit her lip before finishing, "Maybe you could fill in the missing pieces of her in your mind with bits from other people – things you like – and even though it won't be the real her, it would still be better than having a hole in your heart."

"What makes you think she left a hole in my heart?" The Doctor questioned in surprise.

Her fingers came together in her lap, picking at each other in a way that was too familiar to not watch, and she took a deep breath before telling him, "You're crying, Mister."

The warmth of tears rolling over his cheeks bent his body just a little. How could he be so saddened by something he could barely remember? He looked down to see the little girl reaching for his hand, holding it gently within both of her young ones as she nodded at it. As though she understood his sorrow in a way far beyond her years; as though she understood almost more than himself.

"My Gran says as long as you hold onto the people you love, you'll never really forget them." She sighed. "Even if you can't remember her face, your heart remembers her, and that's what's important."

The Doctor curled his fingers around hers and chuckled, asking softly, "When did you get so smart?"

She glanced up at him with a poignant stare and admitted, "Maybe you were right about being scared making you faster and smarter." Then she added softly, as though telling him a secret, "I get scared a lot."

"Something tells me you needn't be," he breathed.

Lips pressing together, she tilted her head and replied, "I'll try, but d'you happen to know what would make me taller?"

For a moment he stared at the solemn eyes that watched him, and then he saw her smirk begin before he let out a guffaw of a laugh, feeling her tiny body give a jump before she began to laugh with him. He tried to memorize the curve of those small lips, turned up in amusement, and the way her funny nose wrinkled just a little bit. He tried to memorize the way the sliver of her eyes he could see through their slits sparkled, and how her round cheeks glowed.

Maybe he could hold onto that after he left. _Maybe_...

" _Oh my stars_ , Clara! They said there was some sort of rabid dog!?" The woman rushing towards them he remembered immediately, and he slipped his hands away cautiously as she plucked her daughter up to hold tightly, not a word to him as she turned and went to sit Clara down on a counter, inching back to begin a mother's examination of their child's body as the girl writhed in contempt, repeating sternly, but softly, " _Mum, I'm fine_."

He smiled and bowed his head, picking himself up out of that stiff chair to walk towards a back exit to nod at the UNIT soldiers working their way through the field, searching for any remnants that needed to be discarded of. He pushed his hands deep into his pockets and he walked with his eyes on the blue box that had felt so very empty to him for so long now. The Doctor stepped inside and he moved up the steps towards a shelf of books, each marked with a number, preceded by a bold "CO" and he plucked out the twenty ninth, letting it fall open in his hands to a story he'd written the day before.

Memories jotted down in the hopes of piecing her back together entirely one day.

"We're all stories in the end," he'd told Amy before her. He frowned because he could see her fiery hair and her bright eyes and her pale face. He could see her gangly length of legs and the slender fingers that usually had boldly painted fingernails at the end. The Doctor could hear her voice and hear her laugh and he felt it unfair as he looked down at the blank page he'd turned to, plucking a pen off the shelf to jot down a note.

"CLARA OSWALD. AGED SIX. GETS SCARED A LOT."

He entered in a few more notes about her. About the way her weight felt in his lap and against his shoulder and how comfortable she seemed to fit there – as though he weren't a stranger at all, even though they both knew he'd been. He noted how her eyes went from widely magical, to reddened ever so slightly in sadness. He noted how she'd _almost_ died. Again, because of him and his chasing that creature closer to her school.

And then he simply stared at his words.

In another book he'd written that she said maybe she'd become a song in the end, a few chords he plucked at random on his guitar that filled him with an odd hope that fell into despair by the final notes. She'd told him that on a day she'd pretending to be someone else, he knew. She'd told him that on the day she'd let him go. For their own good. He knew it was for their own good, but there was a part of him that couldn't.

 _Perhaps_ , he thought with a smile as he wrote down a note and tried in vain to draw her tiny face. Perhaps it was stubbornness, knowing she was still out there and there were so many books they could fill with their tales. Perhaps it was arrogance, feeling he had every right to remember her the way he used to. Perhaps it was pure curiosity – why would he go to such a great lengths to forget someone who seemed to mean so very much to him. And perhaps the little girl had been right, he pondered, closing the book and slipping it back on the shelf with a pained exhale.

Perhaps it was simply the hole she'd left in his heart.


End file.
